Keep Pulling Until It All Unravels
by yurImperial
Summary: Anemone returns from a mission and tries to unravel the mess that is her psyche. As with many things, this does not go well for her.


Keep Pulling Until It All Unravels

The post-mission technicians strip Anemone out of her skin tight piloting suit. They remain faceless and inhuman behind their helmets, going about their task methodically and mechanically. Sometimes she wonders if they're really people at all. Maybe they're androids; the technology is certainly there.

But today, Anemone wonders if they're not more like Nirvash and theEND - not human, but alive all the same. Maybe there's a little Anemone inside this one, or a little Renton piloting that one over there. She giggles at the thought and one of the technicians looks up at her questioningly, but she pays it no mind. No need for pretenses or embarrassment around them, which she supposes is comforting. Sorta like piloting theEND. Freeing, just not nearly as exhilarating.

The technician continues to study Anemone from behind its opaque visor, head cocked in an imitation of human curiosity. Almost like it recognizes her for what she is for the first time. Could it be having these same thoughts about Anemone's authenticity?

She can see her own face, warped, as it stares back out from the reflective visor. Eyes open a little too wide beneath flattened pink hair. Dimpled cheeks framing a manic grin. If there's a human in that reflection, she can't find it.

 _I wonder, who's piloting me?_ Anemone thinks. _It better not be a tiny Eureka._

The grin on her reflection twists into a dark scowl. Perhaps in reaction, perhaps as a matter of programming, the technician turns away to attend to other duties.

They finish stripping her, place her in a white hospital gown, and leave her to wait in the examination room. As the drug starts to wear off, Anemone's thoughts grow more convoluted until she can't imagine ever being able to untie all the knots. Then the sensations start to crowd in on the already lacking space in her skull.

Silence. No, there's a buzzing sound coming from somewhere. Probably a piece of equipment in the room. A bead of sweat trickles down her back between her skin and the gown, which feels heavy and smothering. The buzzing sound tunnels into her ear like a fly and she swats at it. The air current ruffles her hair, which tickles her neck and forehead. She attempts to brush a lock behind her ear but it doesn't stay put. She tries again. Her other hand tears at the front of the gown, trying to open the collar but it already hangs loosely. The room has a sharp odor of cleaning products, sterile and bitter.

 _I told them so many time I hate that fucking_

the buzzing isn't in her ear, it's

the tickle by her temple persists and she grabs her own hair roughly, wrenching

the bead of sweat is still crawling down her spine _Sweat? No, an insect roaming my_

 _That fucking smell I hate it I hate_

she can hear her nervous system, the static of electrical impulses

her hair feels fake, like cheap plastic, and she wants to pull it all out

her bones feel sharp like they might burst out of her skin if she moves, every point of contact with the chair rupturing

 _Slap-slap_.

Her bare feet hit the cold concrete floor. Empty space encompasses her except for those two points. It's better but it's not enough - no, it's too much of everything all at once, her mind screams. She wants to feel muted like she does when she's on the drug. She wants to feel suspended, floating, like when she's piloting. When she's inside theEND.

A metallic taste explodes in her mouth. She feels her upper lip expecting a nosebleed. She feels her lower lip expecting bile. Both times, her fingers come away clean. She has too many fingers, though. They fan out in front of her face, her vision doubling and then tripling. The room pitches - she can tell it's the room, because her feet are sunk up to the ankles in cold concrete - and she isn't the only one in the room anymore and he's tilting too.

"Anemone!"

She's floating above the floor, Dominic suddenly by her side. She looks up into his face. His brow is creased with concern. It makes him look older, tired.

"I keep pulling on the threads, but they only get more tangled." Anemone hears her own voice like a recording being played back - at least, she thinks it's hers, but it's hard to tell without being able to see her lips move. They're not the words she was expecting to come out.

She's still tugging at her hair above her temple, half-hoping it will all come winding out as one long strand and unravel her confused thoughts with it. But Dominic places a hand on hers and caresses it until it stills. Anemone realizes he's the one holding her up with one arm wrapped under her shoulders, almost cradling her to his chest. His pupils are massive and black in the reflective silver of his irises. He's so close that they fill her vision until all she can see is her own face again, like looking at the technicians' helmets. She sees what he's seeing, hair not cotton candy pink but sea foam green, an intact ring around lavender irises instead of a slash through them. Not human, not human, not human, _not Anemone_.

Her muscles contract viciously, spinning her out of his grasp as her fingernails flash out. This time she does feel blood on the tips of her fingers. Dominic's blood. He's thrown against the wall in surprise, dropping her to the floor where she curls in on herself, gasping. A clipboard lays abandoned on the floor a foot away from Anemone's face. The writing swims, the characters connecting into one long, tangled line that slithers across the page. From the corner of her eye, she can see Dominic holding a gloved hand to the side of his neck, the white material already staining red. The smell is so strong she can practically taste it and chokes. She swallows it down, thick saliva sliming the back of her throat. She swallows again and again until she can no longer taste copper.

Eventually, the world quiets. Her breaths no longer sound like thunder in her chest and her skin stops crawling. It leaves her feeling like a child that has thrown a fit and, having expended all its energy in flailing and screaming, no longer remembers what had upset it in the first place. She finally stills, her cheek pressed into the refreshing cold of the concrete beneath her.

After what feels like a long time, Dominic crawls over to her and presses two fingers tentatively to her jaw line. Anemone blinks but offers no resistance. Sighing, he sits back on his haunches and dabs at his brow with a handkerchief.

"It seems the storm has passed."

Anemone blinks again and watches as the clipboard disappears from her field of vision, replaced by a pair of shoes. Hands grab her from either side and haul her back up into the examining chair. The two technicians sit her up so she's facing Dominic, positioning her like a plastic model. Dominic waits for them to finish, his eyes scanning the first few pages on the clipboard until they leave.

"Are you feeling better now, Anemone?" he asks politely, submissively. She knows he's letting her feel like she has control again. He's the one making her do things, not Dewey, so he always tries to make it seems like he's not at fault. But of course he is. Everything is his fault. It's because of him her brain is so messed up. It's his fault when she gets migraines or throws fits. Maybe there's a little Eureka piloting him, making him hurt her. That's it. That would make sense. It would be easier if that were the case. She doesn't mind hating Eureka.

Anemone's head rolls back against the headrest, contempt oozing out of her features. She aims a smirk right at that reflection in Dominic's eyes.

"Never better."


End file.
